


Brought To You By...

by in_the_bottle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:57:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_the_bottle/pseuds/in_the_bottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things John didn't need to know (but do), and Sherlock finally learned that there are some things he is content with not knowing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic after more than a year of not writing anything. And of course, I had to go and write from Sherlock's POV. Yes, I may indeed be a masochist. Many thanks to [](http://out-there.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**out_there**](http://out-there.dreamwidth.org/), [](http://scribewraith.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**scribewraith**](http://scribewraith.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=laurab1)[**laurab1**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=laurab1) for betaing and Brit-picking.

** Now **

Word words words words words. So many words in orders that did not make sense. Seeing sound and hearing colours. B sharp is blue, C flat is brown, G is burgundy. All colours starting with B. Words and sound and words and colours and words. Where was his violin? He needed to see what the other notes look like. All the colours that start with B, B is for blue brown burgundy beige brass bronze blue beige brown blue burgundy bronze blue burgundy blood beautiful blue blue blood blue blue blue beautiful blue...

"Sherlock!"

Black...

 

 

 

Black.

 

 

** Then **

"I don't want to know what's in there, do I?" John asked as he shut the refrigerator door.

"No," Sherlock answered absently, scrolling his way through the emails and comments from his website. His mobile was right beside him, but no matter how hard he willed it, it did not ring.

"At least it's not big enough for a head." John muttered to himself, but Sherlock was close enough at the kitchen table to hear.

Sherlock paused and looked up from the laptop screen.

No, it wasn't a head, technically. It was only part of a head. The brain to be precise, stored in a medical transport container so John wouldn't see it and tell Sherlock off because it upset his delicate constitution to see a brain in the chiller first thing in the morning.

It was a very interesting brain, but John didn't need to know anything about it.

Stupid, stupid, boring, boring, boring, so very wrong yet thinking they were clever: funny, really. Would Lestrade just call him already? And the bastard had the gall to ignore all his texts for the last week.

(Clinking mugs and teaspoons and boiling water. Scent of tea with a hint of burning toast. John muttering a curse, switching off the toaster because it wasn't working quite the same after Sherlock put it back together at the conclusion of an experiment.)

New email, request for help, suspected cheating boyfriend, so very boring. Besides, it was clearly the brother who was sleeping with her boyfriend, any idiot could've deduced that.

"Huh, I think the boyfriend's sleeping with her brother," John's warm breath at the back of his neck. Sherlock twisted his head around to see John standing behind him reading over his shoulders.

"Yes," he answered simply and went back to scrolling and clicking, a small part of his mind questioning why and how he had not noticed John walking up behind him, making a mental note to pay more attention in the future.

Two hours later, John was at work (Sherlock only realised John had left an hour after their brief exchange in the kitchen) and the call he was expecting from Lestrade finally came.

Three days late, the stubborn bastard.

Sherlock would've given in and called Lestrade if the brain in the fridge hadn't been there to ward off the boredom.

* * *

"We're not dealing with a Jack the Ripper copycat are we?" For once, Lestrade sounded like he knew he was in over his head instead of grudgingly giving into Sherlock's demands. He was finally learning.

"Of course not. That would be too easy. He's copying a series of different serial killers," Sherlock flipped through the files on Lestrade's desk. "First victim: female, 43 years old, suffering from breast cancer, morphine overdose, clearly the _modus operandi_ of Dr Death, Harold Fred Shipman," Sherlock tossed the first file aside, swiftly moving on to the second.

"Second victim: woman working as a cleaner, 58 years of age, beaten and then strangled to death with a phone cord. The trademark work of Vlado Taneski, Macedonian serial killer who killed himself after he was arrested. And finally," Sherlock reached for the last file and flipped to the autopsy photos of the last victim. "We have the prostitute, with her throat cut and body mutilated, the famous work of Jack the Ripper."

There was silence in the room. For once, neither Anderson nor Donovan was around to make any idiotic comments, allowing Sherlock to focus on the issue at hand. His eyes scanned through the files again.

"Something's missing," Sherlock looked at the photos of each crime scene.

"There was something else at the three crime scenes that isn't on the file. Something that you're not telling me. Something that allowed you to realised that these three murders were connected. I don't think any of you here are clever enough to have made the connection I just did without more help." He looked up at Lestrade. "What aren't you telling me Detective Inspector?"

Sherlock didn't know why Lestrade was playing this game. Was it a test? Hadn't Sherlock proved himself over and over and over again with the cases he had solved for them? Hadn't they learned by now that there was no use trying to hide things from him? He always finds out and it is just a colossal waste of his time. Everything would be quicker and easier if they just give him all the information in the first place.

Lestrade produced a fourth file and handed it to Sherlock. In it were three photographs, one from each of the crime scene.

"Show me the originals."

 

 

** Now **

B was for blue.

Words.

Words words letters words words letters forming into words all the different alphabets coming together into words.

B was for blue beige burgundy blood... blood is red, red began with R it didn't fit. Didn't fit didn't fit. Start again B was for blue –

"Sherlock?"

Name. Words letters words words words words words.

Words and names and letters.

_My beautiful Sherlock._

Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, beautiful blue. Blue and white and blue. B was for blue. B was for beautiful beautiful blue.

White.

"Sherlock?"

Name.

Sherlock. His name.

Too much white, white so blinding after the blue and the black and the burgundy and blood.... "Sherlock, are you awake?"

The whiteness dimmed. Beige and brown up and down shape and form: John. No blue.

"Oh, thank God."

What has God got to do with anything?

"It's a figure of speech, Sherlock."

He knew that.

"Of course." New sound. New voice.

No blue. No more colours; Mycroft.

Shame, really. He wanted to see how many colours he could've conjured with his violin.

 

 

Black.

 

** Then **

Three sheets of blue paper.

In the middle of each sheet: Times New Roman, 72 point font size. Common, standard A4 printing paper in blue; run of the mill laser printer. No fingerprint, no scent, no clue except the two letters in the middle of each page.

J C

S M

H W

"What do they mean?" Sherlock muttered.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Lestrade replied. "It looks like some sort of code, but no one could figure out what."

J C / S M / H W

The letters rearranged themselves in Sherlock's head, but it still didn't make sense. There was insufficient data; only one possible answer.

"It's incomplete."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It's incomplete. It's a message, but it's not complete. He's going to kill again."

Sherlock closed his eyes, the details of each file flooding through his mind. Each and every piece of information warring to come forward, like annoying school children raising their hands in class calling for the teacher's attention. Calling for Sherlock's attention. Sherlock snapped his eyes open.

In one quick motion, he gathered up all four folders on the desk and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade demanded.

"Home."

* * *

Sherlock sent John a text as soon as he stepped out of Lestrade's office. The reply came while he was in the cab.

_At work. Bills to pay. If no one's dying in nxt 3h, it can wait. JW_

No it cannot bloody wait!

_Could be killing RIGHT NOW. SH_

The reply came a minute later.

_We'd be too late then. Be home by 6:30. JW_

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration at John's message. He ignored the cabbie's worried look. Didn't John understand that there's a serial killer – out there _right now_ \- who has possibly located his fourth victim and is in the process of killing said victim? Every second counts!

_J C / S M / H W  
What does it mean? SH_

Sherlock hit end just as the taxi arrived at 221B Baker Street. He tossed a twenty pound note at the cabbie, not bothering to wait for the change and was in the sitting room before his phone beeped once more, signaling John's reply.

_WITH PATIENT!! JW_

_Is patient dying? SH_

_Not the point! JW_

_Come home now! SH_

_See you at 6:30! JW_

Sherlock tossed his mobile onto the table in frustration and flopped onto the sofa, lying down to stare at the ceiling. The patterns on the ceiling did not tell him anything new. He reached beneath the cushions and dug out the box of nicotine patches he had stashed there three days ago. Two patches would do for now.

J C / S M / H W

The letters once again rearranging themselves in his mind. Three pairs, six individual letters.

S M / H W / J C

It wasn't a substitution or transposition cipher. An anagram? No, it didn't make sense. Vigenere cipher? No, that didn't make sense either.

The order of the letters.

Harold Shipman, Vlado Taneski and Jack the Ripper. Significance of choosing these killers and their _modus operandi?_

A clue perhaps.

Shipman and Taneski were dead. Jack the Ripper's identity remained unknown thus nothing to do with the date of death of original killers.

Dates of the original killer's first kills were ambiguous. Unlikely current killer would leave something as important as getting his message across to ambiguity.

Length of time between kills? First victim was killed a month ago, second victim 8 days after, but the third and latest victim only died less than 48 hours ago. There was no set pattern he could see so far.

All the victims were female, but there was nothing beyond that, and the notes, to connect them. Different backgrounds, different social circles, from different parts of London.

J C / H W / S M

H W / S M / J C

C J / M S / W H

Something within those three pairs of letters that could lead him to the killer's next victim? He couldn't get the message without more pieces of the puzzle, and ironically, he couldn't get more of the pieces unless someone died.

And why blue paper? Something was telling him that the blue paper was an important piece of the puzzle, but there was not enough evidence and facts for him to piece it all together.

He was going in circles, and where the hell was John?

(Front door opening and shutting. Footsteps up the stairs.)

"Finally!" Sherlock said as John walked into the sitting room. "Where have you been?"

"Work! I told you I'd be back by 6:30. It's – " John looked at his watch. "Only quarter past. I'm early."

"Files on the table," Sherlock really wasn't interested in what else John had to say about his day, the important thing is that John was here, maybe he'd be able to pick something up that Sherlock missed. Unlikely, but it has happened on very rare occasions. He pointed at the table, still lying down on the sofa. "Three victims."

"There are four files."

"Excellent observation, Dr. Watson," Sherlock didn't have to look to know that John was rolling his eyes at him. "The fourth is what they have in common."

"The string of letters you sent me?"

"Yes." Sherlock was pleased. This was why John was so much better than the skull when Sherlock needed something or someone to talk things through.

(The sound of paper shuffling as John read.)

Sherlock would have to explain to him the serial killer connection because John wouldn't know enough about serial killers to make that connection.

Sherlock got up from the sofa and started to pace, the movement might help with blood flow and jolt his brain into putting the puzzle together.

"Are you done yet?"

"Is there a deadline?" John asked in reply.

Sherlock stopped.

"I don't know."

And that was the problem.

* * *

Ten hours later, there was a fourth victim. Fifteen-year-old schoolgirl found bound, gagged and strangled to death. School-girl Strangler, Arnold Karl Sodeman's preferred method.

Lestrade had sent him a copy of the file before Sherlock even asked for it.

Fourth piece of blue A4 paper, only one letter this time: I

J C / S M / H W / I

"I don't get it. I? Only one letter this time. Why break the pattern?" John asked.

"That, my dear John, is the question," Sherlock answered absently as he rearranged the sequence of the letters on the table. Having the photographs visually in front of him might give him some more insight than just trying to rearrange it in his head. What is it that the killer is trying to tell them?

H W / J C / S M / I

"Did you just called me 'dear'?"

"Hm?" He had tried every cipher and code breaker that he could think of and still hadn't been able to work it out. With four sets of letters to work on, Sherlock had hoped that he had at least able to get some idea about the type of code if not the whole message.

"Never mind."

(Chair scraping against wooden floor as John got up. Water running at the kitchen sink. Kettle being filled, John making tea. All was normal; his attention not required.)

Why was there only one letter in the last note? Why was he breaking his pattern? A clue? But a clue to what? He picked up the four photographs and started shuffling them in his hands.

(Think, think, think!)

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John having a rather noisy fight with a bag of crisps. He was about to tell John to keep it down when he saw John give up trying to tear the bag open and resorting to cutting the bag open with a pair of scissors.

(Same pair of scissors Sherlock had used to take some hair samples off the head in the fridge before the whole mess with Moriarty started, but John was better off not knowing that. Bag of crisps left on table, hurried footsteps and – )

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as John snatched the photographs from his fingers. John scanned through them and then started cutting them up with the scissors.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock repeated. "This isn't some kindergarten art project."

"My name's in there. It's been bugging me for a while but I thought I was seeing things, but this last note, only one letter."

"What are you talking about?" Being confused was still novelty to Sherlock, one he does not enjoy.

"My initials," John picked up two half of the photographs he had cut up and there it was, JW.

And the dam in Sherlock's mind broke.

"The last note was a clue, telling us all the other letters are supposed to be read separately and not in pairs," Sherlock concluded. "It's been staring at us all this time. Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I see it?"

"Because you were thinking in terms of ciphers and spy codes, this is a simple case of initials and shorthand," John arranged the letters into a new combination as Sherlock watched.

When John was done, on the table, among the bits of papers and crime scene photos was a message to Sherlock.

SH JW M I C

"There's going to be another murder," Sherlock picked up a pen, grabbing a piece of paper and tearing it in half, Sherlock added two more letters.

SH JW MH I C U

This was personal.

* * *

Sherlock had been right (of course he'd been right), there was another murder two days after they worked out the message.

Female, 26 years old, strangled and had her neck broken. Terry Blair, serial killer from Kansas City.

Another note on blue A4 paper was found at the scene with the letters H and U printed on it, as Sherlock had deduced.

The message: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, I see you.

Sherlock was going through the case files for the 86th time (27th time for the latest case), knowing he wasn't going to find anything new, that there was no point, but there was nothing else he could _do._

"This is utterly _pointless_!" Sherlock swept the files off the table. He had to clear his head, look at this from a different perspective. Getting frustrated was not going to help him solve this.

The nicotine patches weren't helping either (two on each arm, John had put his foot down and vetoed the fifth patch). The crime scenes, the bodies, the notes, none of them are telling him things like they should be, like they normally do. Nothing is working like it should be!

Something was tugging at the back of his mind, something important in his past. It was like an itch he couldn't reach and it was driving Sherlock insane.

(John was frowning, not at Sherlock, at one of the crime scene photographs on the floor.)

"What do you see?" Sherlock demanded.

John picked up the photograph he was looking at, not saying a word, his expression grave.

"Well, what is it?"

"Sherlock," John said quietly, flipping the photograph around to show Sherlock: victim number four from when she was still alive; pale, thin, short wavy black hair, angular features and piercing blue eyes. "She looks... looked like you."

Sherlock stared at the photograph. The timing of the killings, the similarity between him and the latest victim –

He should've noticed the resemblance sooner.

The killer was getting impatient trying to get Sherlock's attention.

* * *

It had been a while since he had chased someone up to the roof of a building, and the top of the BT Tower, while providing a fantastic night view of London, was also very windy.

Panting, he looked around the rooftop, noting the many places someone could hide.

Sherlock had lost John somewhere between getting out of the lift and running up the stairs, but the doctor couldn't be more than a minute or two behind him. He wasn't going to risk losing their suspect by waiting for John to catch up, no matter what John said.

"There's nowhere to go from here," Sherlock called out. The only exit was behind him, Sherlock would see whoever tried to make an escape through the door.

"My beautiful Sherlock, still so arrogant."

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine at the sound of the sickly sweet voice, sounding more unhinged than Sherlock had ever heard before.

(He was dead, not possible for him to be here. Wrong. He's here right now, on this rooftop, which means it _was_ possible. Conclusion: must have faked his own death to escape prison.)

He turned towards his left and a figure stepped out of the shadow. Five feet eleven, brown hair, crew cut, and the black leather jacket that only served to emphasize the muscles it purported to conceal: Jerold Mason.

The first man Sherlock sent to prison. Back when they were still boys, really, Mason just out of his teens and Sherlock barely 17.

"Took you long enough to get my message," and out came the gun. For someone as clever as Mason purported to be, he was utterly predictable.

"Thought they'd buried you," Sherlock replied, surprising himself at how calm he sounded.

(Mason strangling him, blacking out as the air ran out. No. He was here now; Mason was in front of him. Irrational fear; remnant from their last encounter.)

All he wanted to do was shoot the bastard and run. That is, if he had a gun, which he didn't, because John had the gun and John was very clearly not here.

Damn it all to hell.

"The news of my death has been greatly exaggerated. I thought you'd be happy to see me!" Mason sounded as though he was hurt by Sherlock's reaction, but Sherlock knew better.

Mason was a psychopath in every sense of the word, his only downfall had been Sherlock. Even young and infatuated, Sherlock had been smart enough to see through Mason's facade, eventually. Though to be fair, Mason hadn't been as insane as he now appears to be, he had in fact been quite normal. Brilliant enough to keep up with Sherlock and normal enough to blend in with the rest of humanity until something in him... broke.

Obviously the time he spent in prison did nothing to improve his mental health.

"Overjoyed," Sherlock answered dryly.

"I am glad you managed to decode my final message in time to make our rendezvous."

"Yes, the secondary message to get me here. Initials of the killers you copied. Rather clever of you, and all that trouble just to get my attention? I'm flattered."

There had been times when Sherlock wondered if he was the one who broke Mason, or whether Sherlock himself could end up like Mason, broken. He had stopped wondering after a while (two years, seven months and 23 days after Mason was sentenced to life imprisonment). It was pointless to speculate.

"You should be, Sherlock. You should be. Did you like the notes I left? First letter of each word. Or in this case, first letter of each name. Just like the notes I used to leave you when we were younger. I mixed it up a bit for you this time. I know how much you like a challenging puzzle. Language has evolved so much in the time I was gone, everything's in shorthand nowadays; LOL, BRB, CUL8R." Mason paused and cocked his head, studying Sherlock. "All those years in prison, all I could think about was you, my beautiful Sherlock."

"I haven't thought about you at all," Sherlock replied, suppressing a shudder that threatened to overcome him. What the hell was taking John so long? Now would be a perfectly good time for John to heroically burst through the door and shoot Mason in the head.

"If you're hoping for your little friend to show up to save you, you'll going to have to wait for a while. Knowing how good you are at following instructions, I arranged a little surprise for him. Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to kill him, yet," Mason smiled, self-satisfied. "Just delay him long enough so we can have some time alone. What I have in mind for him is far more interesting than merely killing him."

(Stay calm. John's still alive. He'll get out of whatever trap Mason's set and be here any minute. Just stall Mason. Stall him until John gets here. Don't let Mason see through you. Never again.)

"Look at you!" Mason laughed, walking closer to Sherlock. "All grown up, and more beautiful than I remember," the smile on Mason's face disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, replaced instantly by an ugly anger. "I loved you! You were mine, and I loved you and you betrayed me!" He was close enough to Sherlock now that Sherlock was literally staring down the barrel of the gun Mason was waving in his face.

"Yes, yes, poor Jerold Mason, locked away for fifteen years after murdering a fellow classmate at university and attempting to kill another. I was never yours," Sherlock could almost hear John's voice in his mind, telling him not to taunt the psychotic serial killer with a gun pointed at him, but Sherlock had never been good at listening to anyone but himself. Slowly, he started backing away from Mason. "My heart bleeds for you."

"And so it will. It will bleed so beautifully!" Mason exclaimed gleefully and cocked the gun. "B is for my beautiful bleeding Sherlock."

(John was going to be so angry with him.)

B is for blue. Sherlock finally remembered, Mason had always liked seeing him in blue. Matches his eyes, Mason had always said.

Sherlock never liked the letter B.

 

 

** Then & Then **

"My beautiful Sherlock," Jerold breathed against his skin, slowly kissing his way down Sherlock's neck.

They were in bed, and Sherlock was content to lie there and let Jerold do whatever he pleased. He reached out and found Jerold's hand, lacing their fingers together. Jerold's hand tensed in his.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, bringing their joined hands up into his line of sight, switching his grip so that he was now holding on to Jerold's wrist as he examined his palm. "How did you manage to get rope burn?"

"Was just doing a bit of spring cleaning before you came by. Tying up some junk and pulled too hard on the rope. Nothing serious," Jerold answered easily. Too easily.

(Wrong wrong wrong wrong. The flat looked exactly the same as it did the day before if one didn't count the dirty dishes and discarded clothes, nothing had been tidied or tossed out. Too casual, the way Jerold answered. Didn't look at me in the eye at all. Trying to hide a smile, and so tense; he's so very very tense. He's gone and done something. It was all wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.)

"I see," Sherlock replied carefully, letting go of Jerold's hand. He gently pushed Jerold off of him and starting picking up his clothes.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jerold asked, he didn't sound happy at all.

(Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Have to get out, have to get out.)

_Word words words words words. So many words in orders that do not make sense. He is seeing sound and hearing colours. Have to get away, get out, away._

_"Sherlock!"_

_B is for blue brown burgundy beige brass bronze blue beige brown blue burgundy bronze blue burgundy blood beautiful blue blue blood blue blue blue beautiful blue..._

"You know that I have to be at the lab in 30 minutes," Sherlock replied.

"It takes you ten minutes to get there. Plenty of time."

"True." Sherlock started dressing as quickly as possible, he needed to get out of here. "But I have to make a detour to the library to pick up some textbooks I put on reserve." It wasn't even a lie. Sherlock had intended to pick up the books before his lab session.

Jerold had barely managed to get his pants back on before Sherlock grabbed his bag and rushed out of the door.

Sherlock was on his way back to the halls of residence that evening when he heard the news of Debra Jones's murder. The police had found her bound, gagged and hung by her neck from the rafters in an empty warehouse by the river.

Debra, who had flirted with Sherlock three days ago, right in front of a jealous Jerold.

(Rope burn on his hands. Splashes of mud on his shoes and bottom of his jeans. It had rained earlier in the morning. Scent of copper and metallic rust on his clothes, the secretive smile he was trying to hide, so pleased with himself.)

_"Sherlock! Don't you dare die!"_

_Words and sound and words and colours and words. Where was his violin? He needed to see what the other notes look like. All the colours that start with B blue black brown blood beige bronze blue black blue black black blue... Breathe, cannot breathe...  
_  
The stupid police wouldn't listen to him without solid proof - they hung up on him, with a warning that they will arrest him if he tried pulling another prank like this again - and all Sherlock had were observations. Observations that would led anyone with half a brain to the conclusion that Jerold had murdered Debra, but it had been made abundantly clear that the entire London police force did not possess even half a brain.

He called Mycroft.

_B sharp is blue, C flat is brown, G is burgundy. All colours starting with B. Words and sound and words and colours and words. Where was his violin? He needed to see what the other notes look like. All the colours that start with B. B is for blue brown burgundy beige brass bronze blue beige brown blue burgundy bronze blue burgundy blood beautiful blue blue blood blue blue blue beautiful blue..._

_"Sherlock, breathe damn it, breathe!"_

_Black..._

_"Mycroft's going to kill me."_

__

 

__

 

_Black.  
_

** Now **

When Sherlock woke up the second time, his mind felt clearer. His senses were still dulled by whatever drugs they gave him, but at least he was no longer seeing colours and going in circles.

John was asleep in a chair next to him and Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. A glance out of the window indicated that it was probably early afternoon, but Sherlock couldn't be sure exactly what time it was, not without more information.

(University College Hospital, private room. Mycroft's work.)

His chest was hurting. That explained why his mind felt clearer, the painkillers must have worn off enough for him to feel the pain.

"John," he tried but it came out sounding like a moan. It was enough to wake John.

His throat was very dry.

"Sherlock," John was instantly alert and on his feet.

(Army and medical training. Soldier; doctor, killer; healer. Such contradictions.)

Straw at his lips, and Sherlock gratefully sucked a couple mouthfuls of water before it was taken away.

Sherlock blinked as John shone a pen torch in his eyes.

(Where did John get the pen torch?)

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, blinking away the light spots.

"Couldn't you deduce what happened?" John's tone was clipped.

"You're angry. And frustrated."

"Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes!" The lights disappeared and John bent over slightly to check the readout on the monitors beside his bed.

"You have changed since the last time I saw you. Probably because I've bled all over you."

"Yes. Yes you did indeed bleed all over me. Did you know what happened to the last person who bled out that much all over me?" John straightened up and looked at Sherlock. "He died. _You_ almost died! If I hadn't been able to shoot through the blasted door when I did..." John ran a hand through his hair, a sign of nervous tension. "Another minute, 60 seconds, and it would've been too late," John took a deep breath. "You couldn't wait, could you? Just had to run headfirst into what was obviously a trap."

His tendency to run into dangerous situation was beside the point right now. There were more important issues at stake. "The door?"

"Yes, the door at the bottom of the stairwell. Locked itself the moment it slammed shut behind you. Had to shoot my way through it. And do you know how hard is it to shoot your way through a steel door when you have to worry about bullets ricocheting? That was a rhetorical question by the way. Oh, and whoever the killer is, he got away."

"How? There was only one exit from the roof."

"I have no idea. There was no one else on the rooftop when I got there, just you on the ground, _bleeding to death_ with a bullet in your chest. God, another centimetre to the right..."

It wasn't necessary for John to finish the sentence. Another centimetre to the right, the bullet would've hit his heart and Sherlock would be dead. And the maniac was still out there.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"He's got a head start then."

"I take that you know who the killer is? What am I saying, of course you do. You had a bloody nice chat with him before he shot you." John paused, looking at Sherlock. "I'll call Lestrade."

"No. Yes. Wait, let me think." Lestrade may be able to handle Mason, but this whole thing was personal. Mason was coming after him and Mycroft because in his mind, Sherlock had betrayed him and Mycroft had helped. John was also on Mason's hit list because he thought Sherlock had replaced him with John. Utterly preposterous of course, but one does not argue with the logic of mad men.

"Or would you prefer if I call Mycroft?" John asked.

"Yes. No! Shut up and let me think," Sherlock really didn't want to call Mycroft.

John merely raised an eyebrow at him.

"What did they give me? My brain feels like it's been buried in quicksand and I can't think!" Sherlock moaned.

"That would be morphine."

As it turned out, they didn't have to call Mycroft because Mycroft showed up exactly ten minutes after Sherlock woke up.

"How did you – " John started to ask as Mycroft walked through the door. He shook his head. "You know what, I don't want to know. Frankly, I don't even know why I bother asking any more."

"He's learning," Mycroft commented.

Sherlock didn't like the look Mycroft was giving him. It was the 'I'm seeing something you missed therefore I am superior and you really should be listening to me' look. Sherlock hated that look.

"Jerold Mason," Sherlock said simply.

Mycroft showed no sign of surprise at Sherlock's revelation. "I'm taking care of it," he said simply.

"You said that fifteen years ago," Sherlock snapped, and then winced. Stupid gunshot wound, of all the things to get him almost killed, it had to be a bullet, how utterly plebeian.

"Sherlock, stay still!" John was again by his side in an instant. "You'll tear the stitches."

"Listen to the doctor, Sherlock. I'm taking care of Mason."

Then Mycroft left just as suddenly as he appeared. Melodramatic bastard.

"You're one to talk," John said. It was only then that Sherlock realised he had spoken out loud.

"I need to get out of here."

"You are not going anywhere. You were shot in the chest two days ago and nearly died."

"Yes, yes, I know that, but I need to get out of here to find Mason before he kills Mycroft." Or you.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Mycroft kidnaps your friends and acquaintances for his own amusement, I'm sure he can take care of himself. And so can I."

Sherlock was sure he didn't say the last part out loud. Stupid morphine. Just as well he had never experimented with it if this was what it was like. Cocaine, now that was a drug to get his mind whirling.

"You didn't have to. I've seen the message, remember?"

John was getting far too good at reading Sherlock, he's not quite sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Who's Jerold Mason?"

"I'm sure with all the facts you've gathered so far, you can work it out," Sherlock answered. He really needed to get out of the hospital. Mason was out there and Mycroft only thinks that he knows Mason as well as Sherlock did.

"Someone from yours and Mycroft's past," John said, sounding like Sherlock when he was working through a problem. "Most probably your past since the messages seemed to be targeted at you. The secondary message was specifically for you, he knew you would be able to decode it. You've already said it was personal, and from the amount of time he spent talking to you on top of the tower, I'd say it was really personal. Fifteen years ago, you were seventeen," John paused, thinking. "He was the first person you put away!"

"Bravo, Dr Watson. Now get me the hell out of here before Mycroft gets himself killed."

John didn't need to know about his relationship with Mason.

* * *

"Sherlock, this is insane!"

John's mobile beeped. Incoming text, Sherlock peeked.

_Get him back to the hospital. Mycroft Holmes_

"Ignore him."

Sherlock raise a hand to hail a cab, only to have a sudden piercing pain took his breath away. He stumbled, but John caught him, strong grip on Sherlock's arm holding him upright.

"Sherlock, you can't even wave down a taxi, what makes you think you have the strength to run all over London after Mason?"

"Which is why I'm trying to hail a cab instead of running all over London."

"If you know where Mason is, just tell Mycroft, or even Lestrade. Sherlock, you're in no condition to be – "

"John." Sherlock looked at John, wanting John to understand. This was Mason, and Sherlock had to be sure, he couldn't trust anyone else, not even Mycroft to take care of it, had to see with his own eyes, feel with his own hands. This was _Mason_ , will John just _see_? "I have to do this."

This was why he never gets emotionally involved. Emotions are messy and chaotic; they blind him. The facts, the science, without emotions clouding his conclusion was much more useful.

John must have understood what Sherlock wasn't saying, because his face softened. "Wait here, and I mean it, Sherlock, _wait here_. No running off without me this time," John said firmly. "If you're going to be gallivanting around town with a GSW to the chest, I need to get some supplies to make sure you don't bleed to death in the process."

Sherlock nodded. John was going to help him; that was good. Because contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did know that it was likely he was going to collapse in a heap and possibly tear his stitches and bleed to death (again) if he was to do this alone (John didn't need to know that he knew). Then Mason would've won. He couldn't let that happen.

His mobile beeped just as John disappeared back into the hospital in search of supplies.

_Get back in the hospital. Mycroft Holmes_

_Fuck off. SH_

_Stop being childish. I am taking care of this. Mycroft Holmes_

_I need to be sure. SH_

Sherlock shove the mobile into his coat pocket after the last message and ignored its insistent beeps when Mycroft replied.

Five more beeps later John was back with an over packed first aid kit.

"Come on, then, let's go and get ourselves killed by yet another madman intent on disrupting my plans for a nice and quiet Sunday brunch."

Sherlock looked at John in wonder, and then laughed, and then he had to stop laughing because laughing _hurt_.

"For a genius, you're an absolute idiot," John chastised as he carefully shoved Sherlock into the cab. "And when all of this is over, you're getting rid of that brain in the fridge, it's been in there for weeks!"

(John knew. How did he – )

Sherlock couldn't help smiling at John.

* * *

"Stop!" The taxi screeched to a halt at the corner of Millbank and Great Peter Street, the Houses of Parliament still visible from the taxi's rear view mirror. The cars behind them were honking in annoyance even as the cabbie pulled over to let them out near one of the entrances of the Victoria Tower Gardens.

"There." Sherlock pointed towards the six storey red building right across the road from the garden just as John climbed out of the cab after paying their fare. "He's there."

"Are you certain?"

"Empty unit, overlooking the garden towards the river. I'm positive."

A small green BL&CO sign could be seen from one of the windows on the second floor with the words "For Lease" underneath.

"Why here?" John asked as they crossed the street. "What's so special about this place?"

"It's something from Mason's personal history. A place he held a great emotional attachment to."

Where Sherlock kissed Mason for the first time by the fountain in the garden; not even Mycroft knew about this and John didn't need to know.

Sherlock was pleased to note that his lock picking skills had not suffered, despite his reduced capacity, and they were inside the building within thirty seconds. The building, consisting mostly of offices, was empty on a Sunday afternoon.

Sherlock would have rushed up the stairs if it weren't for the rather excruciating pain from his chest, as it was he had to stop halfway up to catch his breath.

"Oh, for god's sake," John muttered to himself and Sherlock felt John's arm around his waist. "Come on then."

They slowly made their way up to the second floor, half of Sherlock's weight supported by John. "They really should look into disabled access. Would make things so much easier," Sherlock mused.

"And of course your sudden philanthropic desire has absolutely nothing to do with helping the genuine disabled, but to make your life easier."

"But I am disabled," Sherlock argued, because he was. If he needed help just to climb some stairs that qualified as disabled as far as he was concerned.

"No, you're not."

"Right at this moment, you would find that I do in fact, fit the definition of disabled."

Sherlock shrugged off John's support the moment they reached the landing, he took a left turn down the hallway, with John following close behind him.

The last door at the end of the hallway was partially opened. Sherlock exchanged a look with John, who had his gun out. With a nod, John hid himself by the side of the door, out of sight, and Sherlock pushed the door open.

Mason looked up from his laptop when Sherlock stepped into the largely empty office suite. A large white office desk was placed in front of the window overlooking the garden. However, the blinds were drawn, and that was where Mason sat. Sherlock could tell Mason was surprised to see him, but he smiled.

"I wasn't expecting you for a few more days."

"You've always had the tendency to underestimate me," Sherlock replied.

(No sign that Mason has noticed John, good.)

Mason flipped his laptop shut giving Sherlock his full attention. "How's Mycroft?"

"Whatever it is you had planned, it's not going to work."

"You mean to tell me you haven't worked out my plan? Haven't deduced it from my clothes or choice of take-away?" Mason laughed and shook his head. "I should've finished you off on the tower and be done with it."

"Missed your chance then. What do you want, Mason? What games are you playing?"

Out came the blasted gun once more. "I want the last fifteen years of my life back. But since I can't, I wanted you to see Mycroft dead, to see your little friend John Watson dead, before I finally kill you, then maybe, maybe you would understand how it was like for me to spend fifteen years in prison. Do you know how mind numbingly boring it was in prison?" Mason asked. "But since you're being uncooperative and turned up to the party early, I guess I'll have to live with watching Mycroft's reaction when they find your body." Mason cocked his gun, and Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Revenge. How utterly... ordinary of you, Mason. I guess I have the tendency to overestimate you." Once again, Sherlock was taunting the madman with a gun. This time within John's earshot.

(John really was going to kill him this time if they – he – got out of this alive.)

"Drop your weapon, Mason," John stepping out from behind Sherlock, his own gun pointed at Mason. "The police are on their way and you have nowhere to run."

"Dr Watson, I'm glad to finally meet you," Mason greeted John, his gun still pointed at Sherlock. A thoughtful expression suddenly crossed his face.

(He wanted Sherlock to see John dead.)

Sherlock eyes widened a fraction at the realisation. He was not going to let that happen.

"Hmm... I wonder what would Sherlock do if I – " Mason turned and aimed his gun at John.

Sherlock leapt and slammed into Mason even as a shot rang out.

Black.

 

** After **

_"Mine. You're mine Sherlock. My beautiful Sherlock, always look so good in blue."_

_Sherlock clawed fruitlessly at his neck, the rope getting tighter, cutting off oxygen to his brain. He tried reaching back, grabbing at Mason's face, but Mason only twisted his head away. The rope gave slightly but was soon tightening even further before Sherlock could take advantage of the moment._

_"Always mine. No one else can have you, no one!"_

_Never yours! He wanted to shout, but his vision was fading, all the colours fading into grey, he was getting weaker, grey slowly turning into blackness that's threatening to swallow him whole...black black black black..._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Air!_

_Lungs full of precious air, so sudden it made him cough. He looked up to see a raging Mason rushing Mycroft, the silver glint of a knife in Mason's hand._

_Bang._

Sherlock woke up to the noise of the front door closing. From his position on the sofa, he could faintly make out the sound of an expensive car slowly pulling out into traffic and driving away from 221B Baker Street. After the events of the last few days, it didn't take a genius to figure out with whom John had spent the last few hours with.

"I see that Mycroft had taken it upon himself to inform you about my history with Mason," Sherlock said, the moment John stepped into the sitting room. No point beating around the bush.

"Yes, he had." John was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, looking at Sherlock with an expression...

"I don't need your pity," Sherlock snapped. "Mason is dead and I'm not."

"I don't pity you, Sherlock. This... it's not pity. It's sadness, and anger," John stopped pacing. "What he did to you, I..." John paused, composing himself before continuing. "If he'd lived, I would have gone and shot him again."

Sherlock was surprised at the absolute certainty in John's voice. He had seen John angry before, usually at Sherlock for leaving random experiments and/or body parts out in the kitchen or doing something John considered stupid, but never with this level of stone cold fury. Anyone who witnessed John now would have no trouble believing the doctor was perfectly capable of putting a bullet through someone's brain.

Taking a deep breath, John finally let out a sigh and sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock, looking defeated. Sherlock wondered why. He was fine, a bit battered, but nothing a few days rest couldn't cure.

He looked at John, really looked at him, and something finally clicked into place in Sherlock's head. Everything that had happened in the months that they have known each other; John's willingness to sacrifice himself so Sherlock could live; shooting Jeff the cabbie just as Sherlock was about to swallow a pill that probably wouldn't have killed him anyway; all the times John had leap to Sherlock's defense even as he berated Sherlock; making Sherlock swallow those blasted pills even though Sherlock knew he would recover perfectly fine without them; letting Sherlock keep random body parts in the fridge, letting Sherlock be Sherlock.

"Oh," Sherlock said, finally getting it. Finally getting what John had been telling him. It wasn't often that Sherlock was caught unaware; people were usually so easy to read, their expressions and body language giving them away in a thousand little different ways. Though it seemed that when it came to John, Sherlock had been rather slow to come to the correct conclusion.

Sherlock looked at John in wonder and neither of them spoke for a minute. A smile was tugging at the corner of John's mouth. John had obviously deduced from Sherlock's reaction that he had got his message.

(B is for besotted, beloved. Erase the old memories and build brighter better new memories.)

"What's with you and people with the initials JM?" John finally asked, his question not quite making sense. This rarely happened, the painkillers John made him take must've dulled his mind even more than he'd initially estimated.

"What?"

"Jim Moriarty, Jerold Mason. JM. All out to murder and kill you."

Two out of god knows how many people who might want to do Sherlock harm really wasn't statistically significant enough to establish a pattern, but Sherlock doubted John meant him to take the question seriously.

"Good thing I have a John Watson beside me then," Sherlock answered, because that was true, he'd probably be dead now if it weren't for John.

John looked at him in confusion and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John Watson. JW. W being the invert of M," was it really necessary for him to spell it out? "If M equals murder and kill, then the invert of it, namely W, would equal protect and save, would it not?"

"Oh," John echoed Sherlock's earlier reply. He sounded delighted and slightly embarrassed. Though what he had to be embarrassed about, Sherlock wasn't sure. Despite John's constant complaints about Sherlock's various experiments and lack of domestic skills, Sherlock was now certain there was nothing John wouldn't do to keep Sherlock safe.

At least when it came to important life and death matters, because to be completely honest, Sherlock still wasn't sure what reaction he'd get if he asked for John's help in getting rid of the dead guinea pigs in his room. Sherlock was probably better off not knowing.

And for once, Sherlock was perfectly content in not knowing.

(B is for John's beaming smile.)

The End


	2. (Interlude) We're A Happy Family

  
For a split second after the shot rang out, John had no idea who had fired first. And then Mason and Sherlock were in a tumbling heap on the floor with blood pooling around them.  
  
Neither of them was moving.  
  
The next second, John had a horrible feeling that he might have accidentally shot Sherlock, who had leaped at Mason just as the other man was trying to shoot John.  
  
Shoving the gun into his waistband against his back, John grabbed the first aid kit from the door where he had left it and rushed towards the two fallen forms.  
  
Turning Sherlock over, he could see the spreading blood stain where the stitches had been torn. John spared a quick look at Mason to make sure he was no longer a threat: head shot, bullet through the left frontal lobe and exit through the right occipital lobe. He was as dead as he could be.  
  
And Sherlock would be following Mason's footsteps soon if John didn't stop the bleeding.  
  
"Idiot!" John cursed under his breath as he tore open Sherlock's shirt to get to the wound, hands reaching for pressure bandages and tapes as he applied pressure directly over the wound.  
  
"I couldn't agree more," said Mycroft, voice from the general vicinity of the door. "Ambulance is on its way." John was too busy trying to stop Sherlock from bleeding to death – again – to look up.  
  
Given how close they were to the central seat of government, John wasn't surprised that Mycroft would get here before Lestrade.  
  
"Get him back to the hospital and make sure he stays there this time," Mycroft's tone implying that he fully expected Sherlock to make a full recovery even after this idiotic stunt just so Mycroft could have the pleasure of taunting Sherlock with the idiocy of his actions today. John completely understood.  
  
Of course, John was also doing his best to make sure it could happen, but even he couldn't tell how much more damage Sherlock had done to himself, not without more scans and tests. John was not going to argue with Mycroft; not with a dead Mason lying not a meter away, blood and brain matter still leaking from the bullet hole John had put in his head.  
  
Mycroft stood in front of John with his right hand outstretched. "Give me your gun."  
  
"Back waistband," John replied, not wanting to know what Mycroft was going to do with his gun. "Get it yourself unless you want to get your hands covered in Sherlock's blood." The pressure from the bandage and John's hands were the only thing stopping Sherlock from bleeding to death.  
  
A faint look of disgust crossed Mycroft's face before he stepped behind John and retrieved the gun.  
  
John almost jumped out of his skin when 2 shots were fired from somewhere next to him and Mason's body spasm in a mockery of life. Only his military training and experience in the field kept John exactly where he was.  
  
"Jesus! Give some warning next time!" John exclaimed, his ears ringing.  
  
"I'll take care of Mason and the Detective Inspector," Mycroft continued as if he hadn't just shot a dead body.  
  
"I thought you didn't like to get your hands dirty?" John said. He could hear the distant sound of the ambulance siren. Still no sign of Scotland Yard. John wouldn't put it pass Mycroft to have somehow intercepted his text to Lestrade to stop him from turning up until such time as it suited him. Though how he was able to do that when John's text had been to both of them at the same time...  
  
"He's my brother," Mycroft answered simply. "Besides, Mummy would never let me hear the end of it if Sherlock suffered any permanent damage."  
  
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John cursed before he could formulate a reply to Mycroft, feeling the blood soaking through the bandages he'd applied. "You don't have enough blood in your skinny arse to keep chucking it away like this!" He looked at the first aid kit next to him. "Pass me the gauze," John instructed Mycroft and was surprised when Mycroft did as he asked without question.  
  
The gauze was halfway to being soaked through when the paramedics finally turned up. John did not let go of his hold on Sherlock even as they loaded him onto the gurney. "He's still bleeding, and going into shock," he told the paramedics as he climbed onto the gurney with Sherlock, still applying pressure to the wound. "Get some fluids into him now, he'll need a transfusion when we get to the hospital." John ordered and the paramedics responded. "Radio ahead and make sure they have at least 2 units of O-neg ready."  
  
And they were wheeled out of the office under the watchful gaze of Mycroft Holmes.  
  
End


End file.
